


Drums in the Deep

by MagicMarker



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Events take place in Moria, Gen, Golems, Moria | Khazad-dûm, Ori Is A Sweetheart, The Dwarves are Jews, between The Hobbit and LOTR, inspired by Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:31:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7750606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicMarker/pseuds/MagicMarker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you enjoyed reading!  Let me know via kudos or comments, or you can find me <a href="http://cersei-the-truth-bombardier.tumblr.com">here on tumblr</a>.   Thanks so much!</p></blockquote>





	Drums in the Deep

Legend had it that the great stone dwarfs that guarded the grand entrance to Erebor, well, _actually guarded_ it. 

Mums and dads would tell their little bairns the bedtime story over and over again, sometimes proudly, sometimes begrudgingly, but always the same. When Thrór’s sickness drove the diaspora throughout Arda, the story took a different tone. Long after they had outgrown tales and goodnight kisses, young dwarves asked their aunties and uncles to tell it again, to tell everyone about the home they’d left. So, quietly, they’d gather everyone just a little closer, light another candle, and remember.

*

The masons that had carved out the side of the mountain were not the kind of dwarf to put stone to waste. They were hard-working, efficient dwarves, and never made a mark they didn’t mean to. With such great care did they build the Lonely Mountain into Erebor, that they couldn’t bear to see her harmed. Every dwarf knew that the Mountain herself would protect them from many a foe, but just the same, they thought she might like a way to fight back.

So the masons called upon the elders, most revered of all Mahal’s children, to take all the rock they cut and make it into something new. The elders carved, and they thought. They thought, and they carved. Soon the solution began to take shape. For an entire lifetime they worked, until the dwarves who had been naught more than a twinkle in their mum’s eye when the building first began were now the elders laying hands on the stalwart statues, and declaring them Good.

It was never announced, never written down, but in time every dwarf from the Iron Hills to the Blue Mountains knew that if Erebor ever fell under attack, the king would send his most trusted advisor down, down to the gates. They would give the great stone guardians their words – through a whisper, through a little piece of holy parchment – and the statues would spring to life, swinging their mighty axes to fell any foe so bold as to take arms against the mountain stronghold. 

Of course the littlest ones would ask about the dragon; where were the stone guardians then? Why didn’t they save us from Smaug? Older siblings would shush them, parents would distract them with a toy or a song, and sometimes an adult would make a veiled reference to The Sickness. But the story lived on. They remembered.

*

Later, much later, when Thorin’s Company had taken back the mountain and Dain Ironfoot ruled, the carefully mended kingdom needed funds. So Balin, son of Fundin, led a new company down to the deep, to Khazad-dûm where the Mithril lay. They slew many orcs on their quest to reclaim one more piece of their heritage, but alas, the evil overcame them.

_They have taken the bridge and the seventh hall._

Ori wrote the words frantically in the leather-bound book. Dipping his pen into the inkwell, he remembered.

There were guardians here too – where else, Balin had said, would Erebor get the idea? So Ori ran as fast as his legs would take him, fingers clutching two scraps of parchment worth more at that moment than the entire mine they had come to redeem. Balin called weakly after him but it was too late. His mind was made up. Ori climbed, up and farther up, and with every crumbling foothold he was certain that it was all a sham, just a bedtime story for bairns still sucking their thumbs. Then a piece of stone braid would jut out just so, a perfect handhold at a perfect time, and he knew deep in his soul that every story he’d ever heard from Nori and Dori were true. 

Quickly he found the secret hole behind the ear, stuffed the words in, and scrambled over to do the same to the other guardian. Ori had no time to celebrate a job well done; he descended the statues in bruising slips and falls, tumbling the last twenty feet. His landing took the wind out of him – he wasn’t as young as he used to be – but he pushed himself back to his feet and headed back to where the others had made their final stand.

Safe for the time in the tomb of Mazarbul, Ori shouted his success, but Balin had already slipped away.

_They are coming!_

Ori slumped against the tomb which held his oldest friend and mentor. He knew deep in his heart that none of the rest of them could expect such a resting place. Balin, Son of Fundin, Lord of Moria, would be the last dwarf here put to rest as Mahal intended. Reports weren’t good; the orcs would soon be upon the too-few left. The guardians had not come for them. Balin was dead. They were all dead. Still he put down his slingshot, and picked up the book. The words would live.

_We have barred the gates but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums- drums in the deep –_

Drums? Or the resounding footsteps of their salvation? Ori’s fall had badly hurt him. His breath came heavy, each inhale a new wave of pain as he put pen to paper. The pounding filled his head, louder than even the approaching orcish army.

_We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out!_

The words swam around on the page, every jot and dash dancing before his eyes as he tried to finish the book. Dwarves all around him screamed their final battle cry, raised their blades with aching arms. Orcs swarmed in, screeching, overpowering the handful of survivors with ease. There were so many of them, so many more than they’d known. One ran a spear through Ori’s chest, and he slumped back against Balin’s tomb with blood trickling out the corner of his mouth. He grabbed the book and held it close.

The footsteps grew louder; their rhythm never faltered. Each beat was deafening.

Ori smiled, and breathed his last.

_They are coming._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading! Let me know via kudos or comments, or you can find me [here on tumblr](http://cersei-the-truth-bombardier.tumblr.com). Thanks so much!


End file.
